Jeans
by bluewingedkitty
Summary: Nudge nearly blew up the washing machine. Iggy actually blew up Max's jeans. Now Max would like nothing better than to blow up Iggy. Fax, if you look hard enough.


**A/N "You need that boy/ like a bowling ball/ dropped on your head/ which means not at all!" Don't ask. Just. Don't. Anyways, in other news, started a new grade, I hate my class and…I'm counting the weeks until June. Well, here's Jeans. If it's not funny, you can blame my teachers for all the homework I have right now, (GAHHHHH!!) and my class, for having pretty much NONE of my friends in it. Ta-da!**

**Oh, and to all of you: VampireAngel017, Ok, I-Wish-For-Wings, Hpluvr7, Disneydork,, XxiheartmaxridexX, Poodletips101, The epitome of randomness, Skye Maxwell, Max, madebeautiful, Angela-Amazingly Special Girl,xFlyingElephantsx, maxride333, Serenity Jones, Sir Spamalor, Hawkstar2, InnerPsycho, PenBlender, Flying with Fairies, Up and coming writer and I am INCREDIBLY SORRY IF I FORGOT YOU!! Anyways, to all above: THANKYOU!!! YOU REVIEWED MY FIRST STORY!!!! THANK! YOU! And if I didn't get you the preview, and am SO, SO SORRY. **

**O****kay, story time:**

**Oops, just kidding. I forgot the disclaimer: I don't own Maximum Ride. Please don't sue me, I'm slightly scared of lawyers.**

**Okay, I'll shut up.**

I hate laundry. I really, really hate it. First of all, I live with three guys who are slobs, and, let's face it, even if those slobs are part of the five people in the world you can trust, slobs are slobs, and slobs are a pain in the…butt to do laundry for.

The second reason I hate laundry is that I'm THIRTEEN, and I do laundry for a household of six (me included). You know how mothers on TV are always ragging on their kids about laundry? It's totally justified. Laundry is an unending Cycle of Doom.

Third, it's mind numbingly _boring_. You sort the clothes, stick 'em in the washer, stick 'em in the dryer, fold those suckers and put them back in the rooms they came from. Again, Unending Cycle of Doom.

"So…what?" Nudge asked with her mouth full of spaghetti.

"You are all going to start helping with laundry," I repeated.

"Laundry is for girls," Iggy muttered. I stiffened.

"_What did you say_?"

"Uh, nothing. Nothing at all."

And sadly, my patented Glare of Death was wasted on Iggy, who happened to be blind. And the only on in our "family" who could cook, which I'm sure, is _not _girly at all.

"Well, I can't do laundry anyways, I'm blind," Iggy pointed out.

"Oh yeah, there's _no_ way that would happen," I said sarcastically. "By the way, what are you doing with all those wires?"

"Making a bomb."

"A…what?"

"A bomb, Max. You know, things that go boom?"

I rolled my eyes. Again, pointless. "Let's see, you can make a _bomb_ but you can't do laundry."

"Yep, pretty much," Iggy answered, without missing a beat. He paused. "_And_ I do all the cooking."

Okay, he had an actual point this time.

"Fang?"

"Hm?"

"The laundry?"

Fang looked at me. "Someone has to keep an eye on the younger kids, right?"

Oh. Well…crap. He had a point too.

"Don't look at me, I dunno anything about laundry, _and _I'm only 7. AND last time I tried to do the laundry I turned everyone's clothes pink. Remember?" Gazzy looked at me hopefully.

I choked on a laugh remembering Fang's face when he saw his underwear was pink. And Iggy's face when he was told _his _underwear was pink was _priceless_. Angel and Nudge had been, thrilled, naturally.

"Okay, Gazzy's exempt." I turned to the girls, sitting together on the other side of the table. Angel smiled at me in that cute little five year old way she had. "I'm five, Max. And I might purposefully turn everyone's clothing pink. You never know."

I looked at Nudge.

"What? Me!" she squeaked. "But—I'm…ah…"

"Oh, _seriously_!" I cried, exasperated. "You're all acting like doing the laundry is the plague or something! It's not that bad!"

"Well if it's not as bad as you say it is, then why are you complaining?" Nudge asked, relieved to have an argument.

"Because it's boring, tedious, and lonesome," I rattled off.

"Well…then…why should I do it?" Nudge said accusingly.

"I'm going to _help_ , you know." I picked up my plate and set it in the sink. "And Gaz, Angel, since you don't want to do the laundry, you're doing the dishes."

"What about me?" Fang asked unwisely.

I grinned. "You're in charge of cleaning. The whole house."

I can be so evil sometimes.

* * *

The next morning, I lugged Nudge around with me as I collected laundry from everyone's rooms.

"Okay, now what you do is separate the clothes: lights, darks, and whites. Okay? Do _not_ mix them, otherwise things will turn pink."

"Um. Yeah." Nudge yawned.

I waited.

"Oh! Am I supposed to—okay, then." Nudge began sorting the clothes with me. It took about 30 seconds for the Nudge channel to fire up. I smiled and nodded as she talked, using my skill of tuning her voice out to avoid my ears from imploding.

"And so that's really, really annoying, right? And so the person at the place with the thing—whatchamacallit, you know? Anyways, so the go to the place, and I think _How is she running with those boots?_, because you know, they have heels and stuff. And she'd probably fall on her face, and that would be embarrassing. And you know what was embarrassing? This lady was walking up the aisle—on Caught on Home Video, you know that show? Yeah—she was walking up to get married and she tripped and fell! Omigosh, that's so _embarrassing_! But she had this really pretty thing in her hair, it was this big hairpin and it was white, and I though it was pretty. She had a nice haircut. But the person on the news had a haircut that's kind of weird. And you know what's weird? This girl never cut her fingernails or her hair! That's gross. And you know that the early medieval people only took baths like, once a year! They thought it was unhealthy! And—"

"Nudge," I said. We were done with the clothes.

"And I bet they smelled real bad. Like, the knights! I mean, _seriously_! They wore this like tin can around their body! And all blood would be so totally gross—"

"Nudge," I said, a little louder.

"But you know, we know what knights look like, right? But you know the ninjas? The real ones in Japan like a bazillion years ago? Yeah, they didn't actually wear black, _or _those little face mask things! They wore gray and orange! Because pure black actually doesn't blend in well at night. Maybe we should tell Fang—"

"NUDGE!" I finally bellowed.

She looked at me. "Sorry."

I took a deep breath. "It's fine. Now, we're gonna put the darks in the wash. When we're done, put the dial to extra large, okay?"

Nudge nodded. "Right."

We loaded the darks, and Nudge set the dial as I poured in the soap.

"That's it?" Nudge asked.

"Yup."

"Not a lot, is it?"

I grinned. "Okay. Give it a week and say that again."

We went outside, where the rest of the flock was. Nudge began running, and when she was fast enough, spread her tawny wings and flew into the air.

"Nice takeoff," I called.

"I've practiced!" she called down.

When most people think of flying, they think of weightless grace. When I think of those people, I laugh. Flying is like running. It's not just flapping your wings and getting off the ground. Oh no. Think about it: Your wings (or my wings. Unless you happen to have wings, which is unlikely.) are fighting against gravity to keep your entire body from crashing to the ground below. Logically, it's impossible. You'd have to be super, super strong, and super, super light. Oh wait—we are super strong and super light. Fancy that.

Anyways, flying is hard, even if you are a super human-avian hybrid. I still have to lift 80-some pounds every time I take off. And taking off is freaking _hard_. And you have to practice. A lot. So you don't drop like a rock in the middle of a flight. And flying takes a lot of energy, which is why we need to eat all the time.

Anyways, practicing flying is _fun_.

I ran to the edge of the canyon and swooped off, letting my wings keep me aloft.

"So, Nudge did the laundry."

I sighed. Three years ago, I would have jumped, spun around and started punching whoever had snuck up on me. Now, I simply accepted it as a fact of life: Fang is never happy unless he can sneak up on somebody.

"You're not fun anymore. You used to have a more amusing reaction." I swiveled around (in midair! I'm amazing!) to face Fang.

"Yeah, well, I'm just hard to surprise in my old age." I changed the subject. "So, where is everybody?"

Fang shrugged. "Out here, practicing."

"Great." I swooped in a large circle. "I'm bored."

"Want to do a trust fall?"

"Sure. Anything."

You know how some schools have "team building activities"? Ropes course? Trust fall? Yeah, well we have an actual trust _fall_. As in, someone goes 100 feet in the air, folds their wings, closes their eyes, and hopes the other person catches them.

That's what you call trust, folks.

I pumped my wings hard, surging straight up into the air, feeling the oxygen get thinner and thinner. It's _awesome_.

"Ready?" I called down, hovering.

A nod.

I took a deep breath, steeling myself (what? I was about to freefall with my eyes closed! Let's see _you_ do it!) and folded my wings.

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee……………

My heart pounded in my ears and my breath was snatched from my lungs. Wind streamed through my hair.

"Oof!" I gasped, and my eyes flew open. Fang had caught me firmly around the waist and we were now swooping away. I won't lie, it was nice for someone else to be doing all the flapping. And then I realized how…close…and…tight…Fang was holding me.

Fortunately, there wasn't much time for me to be embarrassed because we then heard Nudge scream bloody murder.

Nudge POV

I finished practicing, and I was bored. And I was feeling nice, you know? And I thought I should finish the laundry, so I went back to the house and let myself in.

We never need to lock the doors, cause we're in the mountains and there's, like, nobody for miles and miles. And anyways, a lock wouldn't stop Erasers, so we don't even bother with them. Except for Max, she uses them on her closet. But that's sort of redundant when you live with Iggy. He can get into ANYTHING.

So I walked down the hallway and into the laundry room. Max told me to put the clothes in the dryer. So I opened the washer.

And a _big_ plume of black, acrid smoke rose out of it.

I gagged, pulled my t-shirt over my nose and mouth. My mind was going a hundred miles a minute, and by the time I took a breath, I had put two and two together. So I did what most girls do in these situations. I screamed at the top of my lungs. "HOLY CRAP, THE CLOTHES ARE ON FIRE!"

* * *

I dashed inside the house, Fang at my heels. "NUDGE?" I called out.

"Max! Get in here!" Nudge squeaked. I rushed in the laundry room and saw the washing machine belching black smoke.

Living with a pyromaniac had its advantages. Quick reactions, for instance.

I wrenched the tap on the sink on and dumped the clothes in it.

"How did _that_ happen?" Fang asked nonchalantly.

Nudge shrugged, wide eyed. I chewed my lip, inspecting the washing machine. There would be traces if Iggy had left explosives in his jeans or something.

Nothing was amiss. The only thing I saw that was unusual was the load size set to small, although the load was clearly an extra-large.

Hello.

"Nudge, did you set the load size to small?"

"Um, yes…?"

"That's why the clothes were smoking. There must not have been enough water when they were spinning in the washer. So the clothes were smoking. Right? I'm amazing!" I said triumphantly. "Hopefully nothing got burnt or anything." I walked to the sink where the clothes were quietly smoldering and began to paw through them, looking for scorch marks. And I wanted to know if my favorite pair of jeans was okay.

I loved those jeans. Not too tight but not floppy, you know? I went through lots of grief for those jeans, including an abandoned house, an emergency credit card and an unconscious mailman.

I'm not going into that.

And the jeans weren't in the sink.

"Nudge, we did clean out everything in the rooms?"

"Yeah…"

I walked back down the hallway, threw open my door.

The closet door was unlocked and ajar.

"Oh, shnikes," I muttered. Only one person had the key to my closet, and that was me. And I hadn't opened the door, all my clothes had been in the hamper. And only one person could pick locks.

A bad feeling crept down my spine.

I walked back to the laundry room quickly. "Guys, I think Iggy—"

**BOOM.**

It must have been a powerful bomb. Things were rattling on the shelves. Iggy had really outdone himself this time.

He would have a lot of explaining to do.

I stalked outside, following the smell of smoke. He was in a small clearing near the house. The clearing was practically black with smoke. Lots of smoke today for some reason.

"Iggy," I said icily. He turned around guiltily. "Where are my jeans?"

"Um." Iggy looked _really _nervous.

"Where are they?" I said, venom practically coming out of my mouth.

"Well..."

By now the entire flock had assembled in the clearing, to watch the fireworks, I supposed.

"You have five seconds to answer me," I hissed, taking a step forward. Iggy held his hands palm up.

"Okay, Max, you're starting to scare me—"

"_Four._"

"Just listen—"

"_Three_."

"We can talk about this rationally—"

"_Two_."

"Okay, um—"

"_One_."

"I can explain—"

"Where. Are. My. Jeans?" I said slowly, noticing that everyone had backed up a couple of steps.

Iggy had a half panicked half amused face on. "Well…" he began.

I walked right up to him and got in his face. "Listen, buddy. You tell me where my jeans are RIGHT NOW or I swear I will kick your butt from here to next Wednesday. Got it?"

I looked down at the charred spot in the ground where the bomb was and the long fuse. The _very_ long fuse, that even charred, burnt and blackened, still resembled denim.

Oh, no, he didn't.

"YOU BLEW UP MY JEANS?!" I yelled.

I have to hand it to Iggy: he didn't waste time. He started running. Fast.

I began running after him. Fast.

Let us draw the curtain of charity over the rest of the scene, with all due respect to Mark Twain.

* * *

"Ow…" Iggy winced. I rolled my eyes.

"That injury _wasn't_ my fault."

"Yes, it was!"

"I didn't _make_ you run into the tree, did I?"

"Yes, you were—ahh! Take it easy there, Nudge!"

We were sitting at the table about an hour later. Nudge was trying to fix Iggy's multiple injuries to his head. And I didn't lay a finger on him. I was planning on it, but he ran into a _tree_ while flying away from me.

Fang was trying to cook dinner. Judging by his pained expressing and the odd smell coming out of the spaghetti pot, it wasn't working. Angel and Gazzy were sitting at the kitchen table, watching us.

"You guys were out a long time. We all thought you were going to kill him," Fang commented.

" I was contemplating it," I said, glowering. "Then I thought _some_ people might mind." Iggy grinned annoyingly.

"Anyways, it wouldn't have taken so long if you hadn't run into the tree," I said grumpily. "Then I had to help you back….It would have been shorter my way. I'd have just punched you a couple of times and thrown you in the pond."

"I wouldn't have run into the tree if _you_ hadn't been chasing me, yelling 'I'm going to kill you!' at the top of your lungs," Iggy countered irritably.

"Well, I wouldn't have been chasing you if you hadn't shredded and _blown up_ my favorite pair of jeans!"

"How was _I _supposed to know those were your favorite pair of jean? I'm _blind_!"

I snorted. "Right. You're _soooo_ handicapped. There's no way you could have picked the lock on my closet or anything, because you're _blind_."

"I just grabbed some random pair of jeans! I didn't realize which ones they were!"

"Do you not remember me knocking out that mailman?"

"Yo. Dinner." Fang quietly interrupted our heated argument. Nudge, who had been abnormally quiet, looked over at the spaghetti.

"Is that edible?" she asked cautiously. "It looks all…rubbery. I don't think you can eat rubber, even though its from a plant. And anyways, pasta shouldn't be—"

"Never mind, I'll cook," Iggy sighed. "Max, if you kill me, you'd all _starve_. Honestly."

I just sulked.

* * *

"Hey, Max?"

It was after dinner. Iggy had somehow managed to save the rubber spaghetti. We, meaning the flock in general, were watching some bad sitcom. I, meaning myself, was trying to sort the laundry. Iggy had disappeared, and Fang was trying to fix the washing machine. Yep, that's him, Handyman Fang. I crack myself up.

Then I remembered how very much I want to kill Iggy.

"Ma-ax?"

"Hm? Oh. You." I glared uselessly at Iggy.

"Can we talk? Outside?"

"Aren't you afraid I'm going to murder you or something?"

"I told Fang if I'm not back in three minutes to come after me."

"Well, then, I guess I have no choice." I sighed and stood up, following him outside.

He looked very uncomfortable. Good.

Then he started talking really fast.

"LookI'msorryaboutthejeanspleasedon'tkillmeIpromiseI'llgetyounewonesandhelparoundthehouseIwon'tpickthelockonyourbedroomoranythingpleaseI'mreallysorryandI'llaskyoubeforeIblowanymoreofyoujeansupandI'mreallyreallysorry."

"Um, sorry? Didn't quite catch that."

He took a really deep breath. "I'm really sorry about blowing up your jeans, Max. I'll get you new ones…and…um…yeah…"

I let him sweat for a few more seconds, but then—the softie that I am—I relented.

"Okay, Iggy. I—" I choked on giggles slightly here "—forgive you. For blowing up my pants. Just don't do it again." Now that's something not too many people say. And then I surprised both of us by giving him a quick strictly brotherly/sisterly hug.

"You owe me jeans," I reminded him, just as Fang walked out the door. "It's been three minutes—oh great, Max isn't trying to kill you." He looked at me. "I fixed the washing machine," he informed me proudly.

"Fabulous. Well, I'm going inside," Iggy announced. He didn't seemed so stressed now that I wasn't threatening to murder him. Pity, he could have used a bruised ego for a couple of days.

There was an awkward silence. Just long enough for me to remember the trust fall this morning. How freaking close he'd felt…creepy...

"Do you ever think about the future?"

"Uh, what?" I asked, startled.

"Do you ever think about the future?"

"No. No, I don't…why?"

Fang shrugged. "Just curious. We can't hide here forever, you know."

"I'm trying not to think about that." Look who was being _random_ tonight. "C'mon, it's getting colder out here. And I'm starving."

"Oh, right, you were sulking through dinner."

I twisted my mouth, and opened the door.

"Hey, Max?" Nudge asked cautiously.

"What?" I sighed.

"The whole thing with the washer, and the smoke and all…well…do I still have to do the laundry?" she peered hopefully at me.

I looked at her, then around at my unconventional family watching. And I thought randomly: _There's no way I would want to live anyway else_.

_That's sweet, Max. _

Even though living with them was sometimes trying, especially with a _five year old mind reader_. I hope she'd heard that.

Even though life was always interesting, I loved my family.

And Nudge was going to have to live with that.

"Yup," I said.

**A/N : Um, I don't really like this story…I don't know, I felt like I rushed it. Anyways:**

**I have 3 (and a half) things to tell you. **

**1) I am so incredibly sorry it took so freaking long for me to put this up.**

**2) They casted Gazzy! Its some Jimmy"Jax" Pinchak dude. He's all right except for the fact that he's TWELEVE. 13 IN FEBRUARY. HE'S SUPPOSED TO BE 8!**

**3) I'm going to write a continuous story! Go to my author's page and vote on what I should do next. Feel free to PM me with any ideas. **

**3andahalf) I got the idea of the washing machine from my friend InnerPsycho. Go review her stories. (I fixed the POV thing. See what you get for the early review?)**

**You are all amazing people because you're all going to review.**

**Don't fall down 2 flights of stairs and out a window,**

**BlueWingedKitty.**


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